


Child of Time

by Squid_Ink



Series: The Eagle and the Cross [53]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Germain's childhood, Kinda depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squid_Ink/pseuds/Squid_Ink
Summary: He wasn't mad. He wasn't possessed. Surely everyone saw images of a glittering cities of glass and gold, shimmering ethereal jewels of an age long forgotten. He was not mad!





	

It was dark, quiet, only the shadows for comfort and… the _visions_. The little boy shuddered at the thought of those ethereal images, cities of gold and glass, shimmering like distant jewels before his eyes. A woman… no an angel more like, fleeting and ghostly. They made his head hurt. He didn't like them, wanted them to go away.

He told his parents about the images, the baker, the candlestick maker, the butcher down the road, random people that he met, the priest, and the members of the silversmith guild his father was belonged to. Everyone saw spectral images of cities, right? People started to whisper that he was mad or possessed by demons. It didn't help that he had two different colored eyes.

"Sure sign of demonic possession, Madame." The priest had told his mother. "I recommend an exorcism."

His parents, desperate to cover the scandal, agreed. Their only other option was to send him to the madhouse. The priest had written to Rome, and a few months later, a bishop and three priests came. They held him down, chanting in Latin, the bishop holding his bible aloft. The boy only wanted his mother, screaming and reaching for her. The holy water was cold and dripped into his eyes, mixing with his tears. The boy didn't remember how long the ceremony went on, but he tired out eventually, falling into a heap of snot and muffled sobs, throat horse from screaming.

He only looked up when his mother's arms wrapped around him, her teary face relieved as she thanked the holy men for saving him. The bishop and the priests smiled, telling her that the devil had been cast out of him, that he should have no more demonic visions.

He had no visions for a week.

Then the returned.

He learned though, and kept his mouth shut. Finding solace in working alongside his father. _I'm not mad, I'm not mad, I'm not mad!_ He would think to himself whenever the visions came. His parents would be no help, they'd either call the bishop and his priests back or send him to the madhouse. Instead, he tried to write down the images his saw or channel the feelings into the simple work he'd produce.

They helped, but they didn't chase away those scintillating towers of glass and gold or the angel, whose name was always on the tip of his tongue along with a feeling of almost-remembrance.

Only solitude and the shadows seemed to truly do anything for him. He sat now in the corner of a dark room, sniffling. His parents found out that he'd been having the visions again. He could hear his father yelling, trying to convince his mother to send him to the madhouse in rural France. His mother begged his father to speak to the Church again, surely they'll be able to cast out this new demon.

"I'm not mad, I'm not mad, I'm not _mad_!" the boy muttered, as he hugged his knees tighter. He kept repeating it to himself, in an effort to drown out his parents' shouts. He stopped, when it was all he could hear. Footsteps echoed down the corridor and he could see a pair of feet beneath the door.

It opened.

A gentleman stood in the doorway, a velvet coat of deepest black with silver buttons and buckles and white stockings, a black wood cane in one had with a silver top in the shape of an eagle. The gentleman had a boy with him, around the sobbing child's own age, but the gentleman's child stayed in the corridor, peering curiously into the gloom. "Are you François-Thomas?" the gentleman asked.

The boy looked up at the gentleman's face at the sound of his name, his blue and brown eyes growing wide. He swallowed. "I am."

The gentleman smiled. "I'm Jean-Pierre de la Serre," the gentleman said, a kind smile on his face as he knelt down to look at the small boy. "My word," he said, "your eyes."

"Sure sign of demonic possession," the sad boy muttered, "that's what the priest said anyway." He inched closer into the shadows, this strange rich man's kindness was a lie. He knew that the gentleman had come to take him away.

"No," Jean-Pierre said, "they are like Grand Master Jacques de Molay's."

At this the boy looked up, seeing this gentleman in a new light. "Jacques de Molay?" he never heard of that name before, "Can you take me to him? Can he make the visions stop?"

Jean-Pierre frowned. "I'm sorry dear boy, but Jacques de Molay has been dead for four hundred years."

"I see," the boy said, disappointed that there was no one alive like him that could tell him about what he is and why he saw things nobody else did. "I'm mad then."

"No," Jean-Pierre said, "not mad. You're gifted. Those visions are a gift."

"From whom then? God? Satan? I want them to stop! I want to be normal! I don't want anyone making fun of me anymore!" the boy hissed, curling up into a ball.

"They are a gift," Jean-Pierre said, "from whom, I cannot say. But I've heard of your remarkable gift and I've come to foster you, nurture your talent."

"I knew it," the boy said. "You're going to take me away."

"Not forever, you can still see your parents and they'll come and visit you. In time you'll take over your father's workshop," Jean-Pierre said as he got to his feet.

"Why should I go with you?" the boy asked, hostile and wary. Kind strangers were a lie, the priests and bishop acted kindly only to hold him down and treat him like he was some animal.

"I'm a part of a secret order that would value your gifts. None would shun you, none would think you're possessed by a demon, none would say you are mad."

The boy licked his lips, and watched as the gentleman's son came into the room. The boy was dressed similar to his father, his clothes brighter though, and his hair gleamed like flames. "Father, can we go?" the boy asked.

"In a moment François," the gentleman said. "François-Thomas this is my son, François de la Serre."

"He's weird Father," the de la Serre boy said, "his eyes are two different colors."

"François be nice," Jean-Pierre chided. "So, what do you say François-Thomas?"

"What's this order called, sir?" the blue-and-brown eyed boy ask.

"The Knights Templar."

**Author's Note:**

> Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft 
> 
> Germain's childhood is rather depressing in my head. I also imagine François de la Serre to have red hair as well, since red hair is a recessive gene and its more plausible if both of Élise's parents had red hair. Considering, that Élise was going to be Grand Master after her father, I also imagine her grandfather was Grand Master.
> 
> Save an author; leave a review!


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